With this parting sally, Winnelda went off to the kitchen and I sipped my coffee, trying to see if we were any closer to finding the killer than we had been yesterday.
What had we learned the previous evening? I wasn’t really sure. For one thing, not all of the suspects had been assembled. I still needed to find a way to speak to Freddy Bell. And I needed to learn more about each of the players in this little drama, preferably from an outside source who might be familiar with them. Luckily, I knew just the person.
* * *
I WAS PLEASED that Mrs. Roland had agreed to see me on such short notice. Then again, we had something of a mutually beneficial relationship. Yvonne Roland was a society widow who secretly sold stories to the gossip columns, so I was often able to provide her with some interesting tidbits of news, not the least of which involved my own marriage. In return, she often gave me insight into the suspects I wanted to learn more about.
I was shown to an elaborate sitting room and she swept in almost immediately behind me, making a dramatic entrance as she was wont to do. Today she was dressed in flowing gold silk trousers with a matching blouse, over which she wore a long, embroidered waistcoat of bright green bedecked with all manner of jungle life. A turban with a glittering jewel at its center rested atop her henna waves.
“Mrs. Ames, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said, brushing kisses across both of my cheeks, enveloping me in the scent of patchouli and orange blossom. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you. You’ve been abroad, haven’t you?”
I might have known she’d be familiar with my itinerary. “Yes,” I said. “Italy and France. We had a lovely time.”
“No mysteries to solve?” she asked, her shrewd gaze on me.
Since I didn’t care to discuss the details of what had happened in Paris, I simply smiled and said, “It was a pleasure trip, Mrs. Roland. I did not go looking for mysteries.”
I wasn’t sure if she believed me or not, or what her contacts abroad might have whispered in her ear about what had gone on during our holiday, but she didn’t press the matter for the time being.
“Do have a seat, dear,” she said, waving me toward a red silk chair. “We’ll have tea and a nice chat.”
I took a seat and a maid brought in the tea things, setting them on the little ebony table between us. As Mrs. Roland poured, I took in our surroundings.
The room in which we sat was not the same room in which we had taken tea the last time I had come to visit Mrs. Roland. This room seemed to have been decorated with objects from the Far East. There were silk tapestries on the walls, a great deal of delicate pottery, and a bamboo tree in a pot in the corner. A painted dragon with an angry expression wound his way along the mantel, and a stone soldier, nearly as tall as me, stood in one corner, his face looking out with contempt upon the proceedings.
“My second husband was quite fond of the Orient,” she said, noticing that I was looking around the room with interest. “When he died, poor thing, I tossed out most of the stuff, but there were a few good things and so I put them all here. I sit here occasionally, on days when I’m in the mood for the exotic.”
I looked at the embroidered tiger preparing to eat a monkey on her waistcoat and could see that today had been one of those days.
“It’s a lovely room,” I said.
“Yes, well, wives must often accommodate their husbands’ excesses, mustn’t they? And how is your husband, dear?” she asked, making this segue into my personal life without so much as an extra breath.
“He’s quite well,” I replied.
Her sharp gaze met mine over her teacup. “Been behaving himself, has he?”
“Marvelously, in fact,” I replied.
She looked a bit disappointed, and I could not entirely blame her. The gossip columns had lost a great deal of fodder when Milo had begun to toe the line.
“I’ve come today because I was at the gala when Flora Bell was murdered,” I said.
A spark of interest flickered in her eyes, though she tried to hide it. She clicked her tongue. “It’s a shame. Of course, I suppose it will be something of a relief to Georgina now that her competition has been removed.”
“You’ve heard about Miss Bell and Mr. Holloway?” I asked, though I had come here on the assumption that she had. If there was something that someone wanted to keep hidden, the odds were that Yvonne Roland would know about it.
“Hasn’t everyone?” she replied. “It’s none of my business, but I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the Holloways. They always seemed so very much in love.”
“Yes,” I replied. “I thought the same thing.”
“Of course, not everyone approved of the sort of life they led, traipsing about from here to there doing one reckless thing after another. I’ve never been much of an adventure seeker myself, though I suppose it’s obvious from this room that I’ve married them often enough,” she said with a wave of her hand and a tinkling laugh. “But the Holloways settled down once they had children, and that’s the important thing.”
I thought again how it seemed that steadiness had brought about the end to their relationship. When there had been no more thrills, Mr. Holloway had sought them elsewhere. It was a disconcerting thought.
“Now that the other woman is dead, poor dear, perhaps they will be able to make things right between them. Marriages can be mended. You know that well enough.”
She certainly wasn’t very subtle in her hints, but I wasn’t going to take the bait. I hadn’t come here to talk about my marriage. It had been going very well as of late, and I didn’t intend to let some slip of the tongue be misconstrued into a society column story. I liked Mrs. Roland very much, but I didn’t at all trust her. I imagined that a friendship with her must be very like having a dangerous exotic animal for a pet. One is perfectly fond of them, but knows not to let one’s guard down.
“What do you know about Flora Bell?” I asked, shifting the conversation away from more personal topics.
“Not much,” she replied, clearly disappointed to be required to give such an answer. “I know that she came from a poor family of somewhat dubious origin and that she tried very hard to hide it. Gossip has it that their mother died young and no one knew what became of the father. She had to make her own way in the world from a young age.”
I nodded. That fit with the conversation I had overheard between her and her brother, and also what Winnelda had told me this morning.
“I am not what you might call a patron of the theatre. Oh, I enjoy a good play well enough. My last husband and I used to attend the theatre very often. He liked the most dreadfully boring tragedies. I prefer a comedy myself. Though, I’d rather attend a musicale any day. I don’t often let it be known, but I was something of a singer in my younger days. Of course, I don’t sing much now. But I do still enjoy the piano. Do you play, Mrs. Ames?”
“Yes,” I said. “I very much enjoy music. Do you know anything about Miss Bell’s brother?” I had learned that, when in conversation with Mrs. Roland, it was necessary to stay the course. One could get too easily led astray by her conversational derailments.
“He’s something of a ruffian, I believe,” she said, drawn back into the matter at hand. “I’ve heard he went to sea for a short time and came back after some trouble. Of course, no one takes much interest in that sort of thing. If it were Flora Bell’s lover, perhaps, people would be inclined to be a bit more interested. It being her brother, no one pays it much mind.”
“What about Christopher Landon?”
“Ah, yes,” she said, sitting back in her seat as she prepared to recite the facts. “Christopher Landon comes from a good family. Not too good, mind you, but good enough to be displeased that their son decided to become an actor. His older brother died in the war, and I suppose they hoped he would carry on the family name in a more noble manner.”
“He’s making a very good name for himself,” I said.
“Yes, they say he’s quite talented. Handsome, too. That sort of thin
g goes a long way in the theatre. There was some trouble with a young woman in his younger days, I believe, though the details escape me.”
“Oh?” I pressed. This was something I hadn’t heard.
“A broken engagement, if I recall. Of course, he was quite young then and I don’t think she was the sort of girl of whom the family approved. It’s all been forgotten now. Those little scandals never stay around for long.”
“He and Flora Bell would have made an attractive pair,” I said casually, hoping this would spur her on to further comment.
“Yes,” she said reflectively. “I suppose they would, now that you mention it. Of course, one can never tell what might make people fall in love. I wouldn’t have said a pretty young thing like that should have gone wild for Gerard Holloway, but one never can tell. Of course, I don’t suppose his family name and money hurt.”
It was a cynical observation, but I was inclined to agree with her. Under normal circumstances, I didn’t think that a woman like Flora Bell would have chosen a gentleman like Gerard Holloway. Then again, I had seen more than my share of unconventional pairings over the years. Such a thing was rather common in the world in which I lived.
“I don’t suppose you know Dahlia Dearborn?” I asked. She was the least prominent of the suspects, and I was surprised when a flash of recognition showed on Mrs. Roland’s face.
She frowned. “Dahlia Dearborn. I’ve heard the name somewhere. But where?” Her eyes moved upward as if searching for answers on the ceiling.
“Ah!” she said suddenly, snapping her fingers loudly. “I have it! She’s a relation of someone in government, though, at the moment, I can’t recall who. Dearborn, of course, is not the family name. Harris! That was it. There was, I believe, some difficulty with her when she was young, an unruly sort of girl. And perhaps some trouble while she was at school? I shall have to think on it.” I didn’t know if information on Miss Dearborn’s school antics would be of use, but one could never be sure.
“And what about Balthazar Lebeau?” I had saved him for last because I suspected his name would bring forth a wellspring of gossip.
To my surprise, Mrs. Roland flushed. “Balthazar Lebeau,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I haven’t thought of him in years.”
“You know him?” I asked.
“Oh, we had a bit of a romance at one time,” she said.
It was only by the strongest of efforts that I was able to keep my mouth from gaping at this surprising news. I knew Mr. Lebeau was rumored to have been quite successful where ladies were concerned, but I would not have thought Mrs. Roland his type. Then again, she had worked her way fairly swiftly through three husbands, so there was no doubt she had a certain sort of appeal.
“I didn’t realize,” I said. Yvonne Roland and Balthazar Lebeau were two of the more outlandish persons I had yet to meet, and I could only imagine what they must have been like in combination. Just the thought was exhausting.
“Oh, it was long ago. Between my first and second husband, I believe. He was always a rascal, and I knew, of course, that it wasn’t going to last. But one does love a rascal when one is young.”
Now that she was telling the story, she seemed to be enjoying herself. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks still held a pleasant pinkness. “He was always a handsome devil. Good-looking in a way that makes sensible ladies lose their heads. Like your husband, dear.” I could not argue with this assessment.
“Why did you break it off?” I asked. I was not generally comfortable prying into people’s personal affairs, but Mrs. Roland had no such qualms and I didn’t see why I should when talking to her.
“Oh, he ran off with another woman. That’s the way things go. In any event, I met my second husband and was very happy with him until his untimely demise. Besides, Balty and I would never have suited.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, he was too fond of drink. I like a drink myself, but there is such a thing as excess, and Balthazar surpassed it. For another thing, he could be very difficult to manage when he didn’t get his way, apt to lose his temper at times.”
This caught my attention. I would not have taken Mr. Lebeau for a man of high temper. In fact, he had been remarkably self-possessed in the situations I had observed him in thus far; sober, too.
“Well, if he was violent, I’m glad you were rid of him,” I said, hoping to draw her out.
“Oh, he never did me harm,” she said. “I’d like to see the day when I would allow a man to do such a thing.”
I would pity any man who tried it. She had, after all, seen three husbands buried.
“No, I believe his problem was that he really felt things very deeply but made an effort to hide it—always came across as though he was speaking lines—and sometimes his emotions would no longer be suppressed.”
It was the same impression I had had, as though sometimes he was playing a character, delivering lines. I wondered why it was that he should feel the need to hide behind this artful posturing.
Mrs. Roland continued, giving her answer to my unspoken question. “He hadn’t had an easy life, you see. His parents were eccentric, and he lost a sister he cared about; she disappeared or some such thing. He was moody and restless at times. I always felt that there was some part of him that was searching for something that might never be found.” She looked up, seemingly eager to brush aside the nostalgic tone her words had taken on. “But, of course, that was all a long time ago.”
“I wonder who it was that did harm to Miss Bell,” I said, moving toward the reason I had really come.
She looked at me searchingly. “Trying to catch another killer, Mrs. Ames?”
There was no sense in denying it, as Mrs. Roland wasn’t likely to believe any protests on my part.
“I just want to do everything I can to help the Holloways,” I said. “And, of course, if I can contribute to bringing Flora Bell’s killer to justice, I’ll be only too glad to do so.”
“In this case, I would suggest looking hard at their faces.”
This was not the sort of advice I had been expecting. “Their faces?” I repeated.
She nodded sagely. “I’ve known actors in my day, Mrs. Ames, and there’s something I’ve noticed about them. The more involved they become in their roles, the more drastic the change is when reality slips through. You just keep an eye on all of them. Sooner or later, every mask slips.”
16
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I had my first opportunity to put Mrs. Roland’s theory to the test.
I sat alone at the breakfast table, Milo still abed, and looked at the paper. As I had suspected, the society columns had devoted a great deal of space to discussing Flora Bell’s funeral the previous day, complete with a photograph taken as the mourners left the church.
I looked closely at the photograph, hoping Mrs. Roland’s words about a mask slipping might prove true at such a solemn event.
I had never been to an actress’s funeral, but the photograph looked as though it was a perfect representation of what one might expect from the attendees. They all stood on the steps of the church, dressed in black, a striking collection of characters. There was Dahlia Dearborn in a tailored black suit, pressing a handkerchief to the corner of her eye beneath the black tulle veil on her hat, her profile turned, just so, to the camera. Her grief, I was certain, was not genuine, but that did not mean she was a killer.
Christopher Landon was there as well, his handsome face taut and expressionless. He was a difficult man to read, though there was something tense in his posture that seemed to speak of some emotion he was trying to quell. Sorrow, perhaps, or something else?
I was surprised to see that Balthazar Lebeau was also in attendance. I had thought, somewhat cynically, that, though he was the sort of man who enjoyed the fanfare of a public event, he would not be tempted to attend the funeral of someone he had not liked for mere secondhand attention. There was a certain sadness in his expression, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it was fe
igned.
Of those involved in the theatrical production, only Mr. Holloway looked as though he was truly grief-stricken, though he appeared to be doing his best to hide it. He stood at the center of the group, his head slightly bowed, as if he had not noticed the cameras. Despite his obvious efforts to control his expression, his face was grim and tight, and there was that same defeated slump to his shoulders that had been present at the meeting at our flat.
I skimmed the article and found that there were several snide references to his relationship with Miss Bell, and I could not help but feel terrible for poor Georgina. I didn’t think she was the type to read society columns, and I was fairly certain she would be making an effort to avoid them now. Sometimes it was better not to know.
I looked again at the photograph, willing something to jump out at me. The only problem with attempting to read people’s emotions was that guilt was so easily masked as something else: sorrow, regret, pain. My gaze went last to Frederick Bell, Flora’s brother, who stood at one side of the group. He looked like an outsider, almost as though he did not quite belong with them, though his claim to mourning Flora was stronger than any of theirs. His attention was not on the group, but on something in the distance. He looked as though he was lost in thought, and I wondered if he was remembering the good times he and Flora had had. I hoped the memories would comfort him.
I wondered if Inspector Jones had accounted for Freddy’s whereabouts the night of the performance. After all, I had heard him quarrelling with Miss Bell shortly before she took the stage. It was possible he had come back and their argument had turned violent.
I folded the newspaper with renewed purpose. Though the photograph of the mourners had not proven to be revealing, it had made me realize the direction we must look next.
We needed to find a way to speak to Frederick Bell.
* * *
IF I THOUGHT my afternoon was going to be free to consider the various aspects of the case, I was due for an unpleasant surprise.
Milo had gone out, promising to see what he could do to locate Frederick Bell, and I was just sitting down at my writing desk to make some notes when there was a buzz at the door. I had a feeling of foreboding that proved prescient as Winnelda came into the room a moment later.
An Act of Villainy Page 15
